As far as he was concerned, there was a lot of noise around him. The noise was intense enough for him to doubt his own brain. Just when he thought it was getting unbearable, it suddenly stopped. The sudden silence made him slightly uncomfortable but he didn’t dare complain anymore. Why did it all have to be so extreme?
His unseeing eyes were very used to the pale walls of the room. This little room had been his home for nearly eleven years now and it was pretty nondescript in most ways. On one end of the room, a tiny cot with iron rails stood, its paint now peeling off but the bedding still as comfortable as the day it had been bought. A wooden writing desk stood against another wall, strewn with papers and an old tin coffee mug which by now, had created a permanent circular coffee stain on the desk top. The room also contained a grilled window, where he often stood sipping his coffee, looking at the busy folk of the town go about their daily business. His room had an attached bathroom, as well. All this was very well but this man, who we shall call Joy, hadn’t stepped out of this very room in eleven years.
The room was fairly personalized with an entire wall dedicated to a couple of obscure band posters, some yellowing newspaper clippings hastily taped to the wall years ago, some of his own artwork and various words screamed across the wall with spray cans. He liked this wall, it gave him a sense of calmness and serenity. Of course, no one knew what disrupted his peace on other days and no one understood his artwork either. It was abstract, he’d like to think and that’s what he told anybody who bothered enough to ask him. Joy was a creative person, the doctors had claimed but he could not stand music, not one tiny musical note. To him, it was noise. Unbearable noise that gripped his insides so tightly that he felt his eyeballs rolling back inside his head while his entire body writhed in pain. There were obviously a lot of speculations to this particular reaction, but the true cause of it still remained a mystery. The doctors thought that putting him through musical therapy twice a week would help him open up about his past but all it did was agonize poor Joy. He hated every minute of this forced act, he felt like a captured animal, desperate for liberation.
Joy had no visitors. His family was rumored to have been killed and his friends had abandoned him. While most people of his kind were immediately sent off to die, he was kept back. The psychologists were interested in studying him and understanding his rare condition. But it had been eleven years and Joy had neither improved nor let out any information about his seemingly traumatic past. The little room in the tall east tower was known to be his and the gray cloudy skies gave a somewhat foreboding appeal to it. Days rolled on, Joy remained the same until one morning, the nurse let out a huge shriek.
Joy had escaped.
Hopefully, coming up with Part – II will be easy. If you liked this or have suggestions, please do let me know! – Sumedha